Apples: Nourishment
by Zaedah
Summary: They’re defying physics and it’s only exhilarating once she gets past the annoyance.


_The fourth in the Apples theme, spanning multiple categories with sexual tension resolved the Zaedah way._

_First sin: Tony and Ziva... (NCIS)  
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_Second sin: Peter and Olivia... (Fringe)  
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_Third sin: Charlie and Dani... (Life)  
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_Fourth sin: Booth and Brennan... _

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**Apples: Nourishment**

Detachment has its merits, the scientific mind decides after the bones are carted away. Another life confined to Tupperware. He doesn't approve of the storage method, something about closure in the ground, but she likes the dead close at hand. When muscle and tissue decay, one is truly revealed. It's a state she enjoys, since masses of calcium can't complain about her clinical treatment.

Death comes to everyone.

Her professor liked to show newborns and ask his students to envision them in tiny coffins. Those who showed remorse for the hypothetical were cautioned against this field. Anthropology decries the soft-hearted. Tiny coffins, to him, mean unacceptable loss and such devotion to the impractical is disturbing. He's too easily attached.

He talks of God.

The past cannot be relived and the future cannot be predicted. Such logic bothers her but he holds to it, failing to see all that history and science presents as truth. Indeed, his past is revisited with every life he steals, still putting bullets through paces. Because he has to. He always had to. And thus she thinks the future can be foreseen. He will kill again and mourn the blood. Pray for forgiveness, warm gun in hand. Rinse, repeat. Bodies come to her after such things and she cannot be blamed for their state.

Complex is insufficient labeling.

Because she worships none, she is called lacking. Because he stops hearts, he is devoted. Sanctity of life is proven more in her actions than his but she can respect the firmness of his hope, no matter how foreign. Though if the divine were at play she'd have to inquire about its guidelines. They're getting closer, even as their magnetic poles should be repelling. They're defying physics and it's only exhilarating once she gets past the annoyance.

Plans, like sleds, go sideways.

Despite the layers of snow, the slickness of the runners, traction has been gained. It happens with minimal effort and the scenery passes far too pleasantly to be safe. She lays down more ice. His heat resists it. Their elements collide and shift, leaving them with less than their original state, a tainting that withstands sanitizing. She can't wash him off and wonders if she's rubbing off on him as well.

There's a wall.

It's the one defended by facts and rigidity, the unwavering stoutness of science. His soldiers are better armed but hers are stubborn. Mostly. Except bits of her break from the pack to scale his gate and though she calls for retreat, they're comfortable there. He knocks her down, brick by brick until he can cross the threshold. And he's not even trying. There's another wall now, this one pressing against her spine. She's trapped there and can't summon the wherewithal to mind.

The door is open.

In the frenzy, she must have left the doormat out because he's mistaken her questing lips for invitation. Of course, maybe she shouldn't have put her hands there. Because he's growling now, possessive, and will take more than her kiss. Thank God. And he grins when she says it, the heathen giving credit to one in whom she won't believe. But his head is descending and there's a holiness in that wicked mouth.

Death comes to her.

Exhibit A: she's misplaced her breath. And she's not looking. Exhibit B: they're situated in such a way that no one should witness. Primal, impure, perfect. She might be dying. Who can tell? Promises fill the charged air of what's to come. He's warning her that his desire will snap her and yet he's said nothing. Doesn't need to. Her want wrestles with his and for a moment she wins, hovering over him in defiant control and watches him divested of it. Falling. Fallen.

Mythical ancestors would approve.

She remembers the story from youth; a flawless man seduced by a flawless apple and vows of something more. It made her giggle at the weakness of men. That a woman is to blame because it was she who first had a hunger for understanding never troubled her. Fictional women can't be held in contempt for suggesting nourishment to their mates. Fictional apples can't possess more knowledge than her extensive education provides. But now, panting slick mess of a woman that she is, she knows it wasn't greed but devotion that made man stumble. Because the woman offered.

What did she offer?

And would he stumble for it? He'll ask eventually and there's no suitable answer. This corporal form was handed over but does the mind follow? The heart? Was this merely an experiment in tension-dissolution? What did they prove? Eyes track her movement, like she's the coveted apple he aches to nibble, to understand. And she'll let him, her offering to the man kneeling at her altar. And the bite is deep, thorough, returned. Despite the goal of detachment, there's gain in connection. He will feel forgiven.

And she's not letting go.

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